


So Let's Get Lost Along the Way

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 18:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12463557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: When Aramis wakes up with Porthos already awake, it only takes him a few moments to realize what's wrong.





	So Let's Get Lost Along the Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> So a million, trillion years ago, JL requested a fic where around mid third season, Aramis finds out that Porthos gets nightmares now after being at war and after years of Porthos taking care of Aramis for his Savoy nightmares, Aramis now returns the favor. And, ta da, it is here... really belatedly. But also in time for a birthday fic? HAPPY BIRTHDAY have some random portamis because they're a default and I didn't have time to write any new OTP fic lol. Damn my schedule. 
> 
> ♥ thanks for being a great friend this past literal decade.

It’s about a month after returning to Paris that Aramis shares a bed with Porthos again. It isn’t the first time they’ve slept together since returning from the war and the monastery, but it’s the first time that Porthos has let himself linger afterwards, draping one arm over Aramis’ stomach and curling up close to him, face pressed to his neck. It’s achingly familiar and yet feels distant – like a dream being remembered in the early rays of morning. As soon as he feels the scrape of Porthos’ beard against his neck, the soft ghost of his breath against the shell of his ear, all Aramis can think is – _oh, oh yes I remember this._ And something inside him cracks open, letting him feel that deep wave of longing, a belated sort of missing. Even with Porthos right there with him. 

“Stop thinking,” Porthos mutters into his hair, his voice already graveled out and exhausted. He’s ready to sleep and everything about him indicates that readiness – the laze of his arm around Aramis, the softness to his face, the quiet in his voice, the relaxation in his shoulders. A rarity. One that Aramis doesn’t want to see chased away for the world. 

Aramis breathes out, turning to nose into his hair, hands at his back. The air is thick with the warm night air, the smell of sex and sweat. He feels overwarm beside Porthos, but pleasantly so – just grateful to have him near like this. 

Porthos isn’t sleeping beside him, but just resting, his breathing evening out slowly as they soak in the afterglow. Aramis smiles to himself, feels that slow slide of peace that’s filled up in him over the years – grateful for that feeling, even more grateful to be holding Porthos like this again. His hands skim along his back and lift, curling up into his hair – coaxing, gentle, and precise. 

“Only good thoughts,” he tells him, voice gentled. “I swear.”

Porthos grunts, and if his eyes were open Aramis knows he’d be rolling them. “Yeah, alright.”

Aramis reaches up a hand to tweak Porthos’ ear with a warm smile. “Just thinking how handsome you are.”

Porthos bats his hand away playfully, opening his eyes a sliver to give him an exaggerated side-long look. He can’t hide his amusement, though, and it lights up his entire face. Seeing that – that’s always what Aramis hopes for, what he always finds himself holding his breath for. He’s glad that, despite all the time that’s passed between them, that Porthos will still look at him like this. That they can still be here together. Aramis smiles, sliding his hand down Porthos’ chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, the shape of his scars. It’s a simple, easy gesture – born from years of knowing one another inside and out, a calming gesture he doesn’t even realize he does anymore. Porthos sighs out beneath him, relaxing further. 

He looks tired. 

Aramis hoists himself up to catch Porthos’ mouth with his own – pressing a few gentle, lazy kisses to his smiling lips. Porthos returns it, chuckling softly and cupping Aramis’ cheek to drag him back down closer once Aramis starts to pull away. Like this, it’s easy. Like this, it’s like they’re young again, no time having passed between them. As simple as breathing. 

“Sleep,” Porthos orders him, tugging playfully on one piece of his hair over his forehead. His thumb traces his eyebrow. “We actually do have something to do in the morning.” 

Aramis winks at him, leaving the innuendo unspoken. For once. Porthos laughs anyway, one of those hearty belly laughs that Aramis wants to wrap himself up in. Pleased with himself, Aramis fades into sleep like that, tired and peaceful and wrapped in Porthos’ arms. It’s an easy thing to feel comfortable in, to not even question it – to just let himself feel it. 

He isn’t sure why it is that he wakes up, only knows that he fades back out from sleep quickly. He doesn’t quite startle, and he isn’t quite sure at first the reason why he’s awaken. As he slowly becomes aware of his surroundings, he only knows that Porthos is rigid beside him, no longer curled around Aramis protectively but rather lying on his back, slightly propped up against Aramis’ headboard. It can’t be a comfortable position, Aramis thinks sleepily. 

Aramis blinks sleepily, sighing out and shifting – snuggling back into Porthos’ space, seeking his body warmth to banish the midnight chill. He noses against Porthos’ shoulder and then sighs out, pillowing his cheek against Porthos’ chest. He feels Porthos shift, slowly and carefully, like liquid – not wanting to disturb Aramis, thinking Aramis is still fully asleep. Not wanting to wake him up. 

“Mm…” he hums out. “Porthos?” 

“Hey,” Porthos murmurs, no trace of sleepiness in his voice. “Go back to sleep.” 

His cheek against Porthos’ chest, Aramis can hear the rapid fire beat of Porthos’ heart – almost as if he’s been running only to sink back into bed. 

Aramis is fully awake now. He sits up a little, tilting his head up to squint at Porthos in the darkness. There’s a sliver of light from the moon piercing through his dirty window, and it doesn’t quite hit square on Porthos’ face – only illuminates a square of his jaw, the glow of his eyes – but Aramis has spent over a decade mapping Porthos’ face, knowing every little moment in his expressions.

And there’s tension there. He can see it in the clench of Porthos’ jaw, the guarded look in his eye. 

Aramis sits up fully and Porthos grunts. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Aramis says and it’s the truth. Porthos didn’t wake him, not really – but Aramis knows too much about Porthos to not awaken immediately when he feels the tension in his body, hears the pound of his heart, sees the wariness in his eyes as he watches Aramis sit up, the blanket pooling at his hips. He frowns at Porthos.

Porthos frowns back and then looks away. The sliver of moonlight slides through his hair, over his ear. He doesn’t meet Aramis’ eyes. 

Aramis remembers nights like this – in the distant past now, so long ago now. Remembers waking up time and again with a strangled scream, his hands flailing out – as if reaching for someone else, pushing someone else away, whatever it is. Remembers how obvious he was in these moments, the sweat at his brow, the gasping scream curdled in his throat, the tension in his entire body. 

And Porthos always there, his hand touching his shoulder, his elbow, his hand – whatever he could reach. His soft voice, nurturing and kind — _It’s only a dream, Aramis. You’re here. I’m here. You’re okay. It’s okay —_

He remembers that. He remembers all those nights, with Aramis having to lurch out of bed to dry heave over an empty bucket. Or all those nights when Aramis woke up, unable to fall back asleep, and Porthos rubbed his hand over his back and told him nonsense stories about nothing in particular. All those nights when Aramis thought he was lost, his eyes flying open in the middle of a dream-turned-nightmare, seeing only the faces of dead friends, a man he loved wandering off into the woods, all that snow on the ground, all that blood in the snow, the circling of the crows in the air—

And Porthos there, folding his arms around him and telling him that he was going to be okay. And telling him that even if he wasn’t okay, he was there anyway.

Aramis never would have gotten through those nightmares without Porthos. Those dreams weren’t gone, but they’d ebbed with time. It was a wound that would never fully heal. A wound that he doesn’t want to ever fully heal – to always remember it, to always have that. But the dreams have dimmed over the years, more distant, occasional visitors rather than nightly hauntings. 

And in a crashing wave of mortification, he realizes in that same moment just why Porthos has avoided his bed this past month. Realizes that, of course Porthos would be quieter, would be less obvious with the pain lancing his heart. The days upon days where Porthos has shuffled into the barracks looking like he hadn’t gotten a lick of sleep. Aramis teasing him about late nights with beautiful women and Porthos snorting and winking at him, a small smirk on his lips – never quite fully meeting his eyes, and Aramis unable to pinpoint why, attributing it to the distance still knitting back together between them. 

Aramis didn’t experience the war. Would never experience the war. But he’d heard the stories, seen the aftermath. Saw the change in Porthos’ eyes, that day he’d come to the monastery. The tension in his shoulders, the pain in his eyes, the rigidity of his words and expression. Not as calm as before, not as openly generous. Still so kind, still that same Porthos – but guarded now, haunted. 

Aramis recognized that same look in Porthos, coming into the monastery after years of war. It was the same expression Aramis wore whenever dreams of Savoy disturbed his sleep. 

With that crashing clarity, Aramis realizes Porthos’ expressions for what they are. He curses himself for not having noticed it before, for somehow having _missed this_ when it was right there in front of him—

He reaches out and touches Porthos’ cheek. Soft but present – undeniably here. He should have noticed before. But now that he has noticed, he won’t ignore it. 

Porthos, as he always does in the face of Aramis’ sympathy, in the face of confessing his insecurities or flaws – cracks a small smile, shrugging one shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says, quiet and not at all convincing. “I’m fine.” 

“Have you slept at all?” Aramis asks.

“Sure,” Porthos tells him. “A little.”

At least he doesn’t deny it. Just as Aramis knows Porthos inside and out – Porthos knows him, too. He must realize that Aramis has realized. 

This is the benefit of their friendship, of the depth of the love between them – all these things left unspoken, not from fear or lack of communication, but because it isn’t necessary. Aramis knows. Porthos knows. They need only look at one another to understand – no words necessary. 

Aramis pulls his hand back and then kicks his blanket off his lap, standing from bed. Porthos’ eyebrows lift towards his hair but Aramis moves around his room – only knocking his knee hard against a stool once – and collects up his clothes. The night air is cold and really, he should have known he’d get cold if he were to fall asleep naked, but he’ll make do. He gathers up his clothes and then also Porthos’, depositing Porthos’ trousers in his lap.

“Get dressed,” Aramis tells him – not a full command, but a quiet request. 

Porthos gives him an indulgent look, confused but willing to go along with it – always willing to go along with whatever it is Aramis suggests kindly – and gets dressed, too.

Aramis offers his hand towards Porthos. Porthos gives him a lopsided smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, no humor in it at all, and reaches to take his hands. 

“Let’s go clear our heads,” Aramis tells him, throwing up the latch for his room and welcoming the cool night air. He squeezes Porthos’ hand, lifts it up to kiss his knuckles, and then lets go as they journey out beyond the safety of their room. 

The night is never fully quiet in Paris. In the distance, Aramis can hear voices and the general hubbub of movement and living. He’s missed Paris, admittedly. There is a peace at the monastery, to be away from the city – but this has always been his home, and the people he loves are here. 

Porthos follows him. Because of course he is – loyal and steadfast to a fault, his Porthos is. Once the road opens up enough, they walk side by side. 

They don’t talk about it. Aramis didn’t expect that they would. But he understands. Some nights, after Savoy, Aramis couldn’t even stomach to think about the images he’d seen, much less talk about them. 

He knows that Porthos will tell him when he’s ready. Knows that he isn’t yet ready to tell him what he dreams about. But Aramis knows him, hardly needs a detailed account to know what likely plagues him. 

Despite this, Porthos looks uncertain as they walk – an aimless, directionless walk. In any other time, Aramis would hope they’d run into some rabble-rouser if only to give them something to do, if only to have the delightful view of Porthos picking someone up and dumping them into a rain barrel. He knows that despite Porthos’ love for bar brawls, now is not the time to suggest it. It isn’t what Porthos needs. 

Porthos looks like he’ll speak several times, but nothing ever comes. Aramis can see the way it pries at him, the tension mounting in his shoulders, the pinch between his eyebrows. 

“It’s alright,” Aramis tells him. “You don’t have to speak of it.”

Porthos’ expression quiets and he looks down. He says nothing, only manages a small nod. 

Aramis smiles at him, even though Porthos can’t see it, and they walk together through Paris at night. There’s peace in this, and he hopes it does clear Porthos’ mind – at least a little. Some of the tension eventually bleeds from Porthos’ shoulders, but he never does fully relax. 

“Whenever you need to tell me,” Aramis says at last, as they come upon the Seine and begin following its curve through the city. The distant sky is a dusted color, slightly lighter – hinting at sunrise in a few hours. Aramis waits until Porthos looks at him before continuing, “You know that I’ll always be here to listen.” 

Porthos swallows thickly, and in the distant moon’s light, his eyes almost appear glassy. Half a second, just a flash, and then it’s gone just as quickly and Porthos is giving him a wobbly smile.

“Yeah,” he answers, his voice quiet, “You’re here.” 

Something unspoken but understood passes between them. As always. Just like old times, but not quite the same anymore. But that’s how it is – how Aramis has always known it would be, after everything. 

Aramis pauses in his steps, turning so he’s looking at Porthos fully. He nods, once. He repeats, quieter this time, with more feeling: “I’m here. I’ll always be here, Porthos. For as long as you need me.”

Porthos’ expression doesn’t lose its haunted look fully, but when he smiles this time, it’s more genuine – almost desperate in its loveliness. Aramis’ heart aches. 

“I promise,” Aramis answers. Thinks, desperately, _I’ve got your back._

Somehow, this is what gives Porthos the most peace – he can see the way his eyes soften. He breathes out, his smile light and devastatingly sweet, as he turns towards where the sun will eventually rise over the buildings of Paris. They’re paused here at the Seine, the slow trickling sound of moving water almost soothing. There’s no wind tonight, but Aramis can imagine the way Porthos would look, standing in the darkness, looking over the river, the licks of wind touching his face and his hair. He can also just as easily imagine all those restless, unpeaceful nights Porthos had to spend alone on the warfront. 

He desperately banishes the thought – looks at Porthos here in the distant Paris night. Beautiful, lovely – alive. Here. Alive. _Here._

“Yeah,” Porthos says again, quieter as he turns back to look at Aramis. There’s no doubt in his voice. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) it is full of nothing but I love prompts and talking to folks.


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